


The Pomegranate Affair

by Kleenexwoman



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/pseuds/Kleenexwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya and Napoleon are trapped in the land of the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pomegranate Affair

The last thing Napoleon remembered was green-white light, illuminating every inch of the spotless walls and creeping under his eyelids. He had welcomed the irritation at first, aware that to succumb to sleep was to admit defeat. But as the light had dimmed and the urge to close his eyes had grown stronger, the reason for it fled his mind, and to resist seemed only like perversity.

He opened his eyes to a flickering light that covered the yellowed, peeling walls with tiny ephemeral shadows. The rope they'd used to tie him up felt strangely slimy, and fell away with no resistance when he moved his hands. He rubbed his wrists, hoping to banish the unpleasant feeling, and tried to take stock of his surroundings. The only other thing in the room was a filing cabinet, jammed against the wall in the same place he remembered it, but the dull grey paint on its surface had given way to rust.

"I've been looking through that thing while you were taking a nap," Illya said. He sat against the wall, cross-legged, sifting through a sheaf of papers.

"Find anything interesting?"

"Only that THRUSH seems to have some very unusual ideas about what constitutes blackmail material." Illya held up a crumpled piece of paper. "You pulled the legs off a spider when you were six. Very bad luck." He tsked and shuffled the pile. "You stole two dollars out of your mother's purse when you were eight. And a week before your ninth birthday--"

Napoleon plucked the sheaf out of Illya's hands. "I'm afraid the really interesting sins don't start until age fourteen or so."

"Yes, it gets rather tedious at that point." Illya watched as Napoleon stuffed the papers back into the cabinet.

They tried the door. The door didn't seem to be locked, but the wood was so warped that it wouldn't open.

"I tell you, I'm almost insulted," Napoleon said. "They tie us up with rotten rope, move us to the worst room in the place, don't even bother to lock the door..." He twisted the doorknob again. "No, it's broken."

"We don't know exactly what the Acheron serum is supposed to do," Illya said. "Perhaps they didn't expect us to be able to escape."

"Lucky for us it didn't work, then." Napoleon threw his weight against the door. It creaked, but did not move. Illya kicked it, and after several kicks, the door finally swung open into a darkened corridor.

*

 

They had been walking for at least an hour, and Napoleon's eyes had still not adjusted to the oppressive blackness of his surroundings. He trailed one hand along the wall, simultaneously searching for doors and keeping himself going in a straight line. The texture under his fingertips had changed from the tacky feel of old paint to the irregular roughness of unhewn stone. At one point, their footsteps had been so quiet that he had reached out to touch Illya's shoulder, fearing irrationally that his partner had disappeared in the gloom. His fingers had barely grazed what felt like soft hair before grasping at air, and he'd given up.

"I don't understand it." Illya's voice seemed very loud in the darkness, echoing off the walls. "Why build a room in a cave? Why go to all the trouble of dumping us in it?"

"Why not?" Napoleon's voice came back to him sounding hollow and stretched. He winced, and tried whispering. "I think Sosostris wasn't telling us everything--" But the whispers seemed to multiply, filling his ears with a dull roar that grew louder as he spoke.

Illya clapped his hand over Napoleon's mouth. Napoleon was so grateful for the physical confirmation of his partner's presence that he allowed it, standing still as the last of the echoes died away. After a moment, he took Illya's wrist and moved the hand slightly further from his mouth, hoping that it would be enough of a shield to prevent more disturbing echoes. He cleared his throat and tried to subvocalize. "Illya, can you see me at all?"

Illya's fingertips rested lightly on his cheek, and Napoleon thought he could see a glimmer of light somewhere beyond the reach of his left eye. "A little," Illya murmured, his lips suddenly less than an inch from Napoleon's ear. If Napoleon concentrated, he thought he could feel Illya's presence, a subtle radiation of warmth on his back. "Only when you speak." He slid his hand away from Napoleon's mouth.

The physical tether gone, Napoleon felt disconnected, dizzy. He put his hand out against the wall, searching for the now-familiar roughness underneath his fingertips. He touched nothing but cool air. "Illya?" This time, the echoes faded, swallowed as if by an infinite void. Napoleon tried to stretch out further, seeking the comfort of the stone; he stumbled, and was brought up short by a tug around his neck. Illya had hooked a finger into his collar.

"I've got you," Illya muttered. "I won't let go. Now, forward march."

*

 

At some point, Napoleon must have sunk into sleep, because he woke up to Illya nudging him with his toe.

"Here." Illya squatted down to bring his face level with Napoleon's, and dumped something round and hard onto his lap, followed by something square and soft. Napoleon realized he could see Illya, very dimly; his eyes were barely visible, but a dim brown light coming from behind him made it possible to follow his silhouette as he moved.

Napoleon picked up the round hard thing. "What's this, now?"

"Breakfast." Illya slumped down next to him.

Napoleon heard the unmistakeable sound of an apple being bit into. He prodded the square, soft thing; it was bread, covered in a thick layer of butter and honey. He brought his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean, thought better of it, wiped the stickiness off on his trousers. "And where exactly did you get this glorious repast?"

Illya inclined his head in the direction of the light. "It's some sort of natural cavern, I think. There are tables set up with all sorts of food. Completely empty, otherwise. I think we've stumbled upon some sort of preparation for a picnic--I didn't think they would miss a few pieces of bread and fruit."

Napoleon frowned. "Unusually kind of THRUSH to throw their employees a picnic."

"Mmm," Illya said, swallowing. "And they picked such a lovely spot."

Napoleon pushed the food off his lap and stood up. "I think I'd like to see this little picnic spot for myself." Illya sighed loudly and stood, tossing the core of his apple off into the darkness behind them.

The path wound and twisted, and Napoleon could have sworn that it should have crossed itself several times. The light grew stronger as they walked, despite coming from no discernable source. He snuck glances at Illya's face--had it always been that pale? Had his eyes always been that unnatural shade of blue, his hair that ashen? Perhaps it was the strange light, perhaps the effects of having been in the dark for so long, perhaps the food had been poisoned...

At last, the path opened up into the cavern Illya had promised. Napoleon sucked in his breath. The stone walls were illuminated by what looked like the soft glow of moonlight, but the ceiling of the cave was shrouded in blackness. The cavern floor was covered in lush grass, so pale it looked nearly white. The tables Illya had described, laden with dishes of fruit, loaves of bread, and small clay pots, stretched off into the darkness.

Napoleon wandered over to one of the tables and picked up a pomegranate. He weighed it in his hand, tossing it up and down absently. "You know," he called to Illya, "they used to call these 'love apples'."

He heard a frantic "Psst!" in response, and glanced over to Illya. His partner was frantically gesturing at him, motioning for him to come back. Napoleon came.

"You idiot," Illya hissed, "what do you think you're doing? What if one of them saw you?"

Napoleon risked a glance over his shoulder. The cavern seemed devoid of people; still, sometimes Illya could detect snipers or spies hidden in places Napoleon wouldn't think to look. "Who? Where are they?"

"Everywhere! Crowds of people, walking round in a ring. They must have all come in while I was bringing you here."

Napoleon squinted at the cavern, but still saw nobody. "Thrushies?"

"I don't know. They don't seem to be wearing the uniforms." Napoleon nodded slowly, and Illya glanced at him. "You can't see them?"

"Afraid not." Napoleon pressed the pomegranate into Illya's hand and watched as Illya broke it open, his fingers strangely skeletal as he absently picked off layers of white pith. He plucked a ruby-red seed out of the fruit and raised it to his lips. Napoleon looked away, scanning the cavern for any hint of humanity or movement. "So they're just wandering around? Not doing much of anything?"

Illya crunched a seed between his teeth. "They're all going in circles. Some of them are going around the wall, some of them are going around the tables, some of them are just looping all over the place. All counterclockwise, I think," he added, and dug his hand into the pomegranate, scooping out a handful of the bright seeds and dropping them into his mouth. "I don't think they're taking any food." He glanced at Napoleon. "And you really can't see any of this."

Napoleon shook his head. "Not a soul."

"I wonder why you can't," Illya murmured thoughtfully. He bent his head and licked a drop of juice from the back of his hand.

"Perhaps it's something you ate." Napoleon nodded at the pomegranate.

Illya looked at the now-empty fruit in his hand, then dropped it onto the grass. The two men watched as brown spots appeared on the crimson rind. Within a matter of moments, the whole thing had turned into a small pile of mush.

When Illya spoke, his voice sounded smaller than Napoleon had ever heard it. "I think we should leave before something like that happens to me," he said.

*

 

They retraced their steps through the path. As the light grew dimmer, Illya's face seemed to grow paler, and soon, the only color on his face was the splash of pomegranate juice like blood on his mouth, shining red through the darkness. He stumbled, and Napoleon grabbed his arm. "Here," Illya said, and his fingers found Napoleon's. They linked index fingers, arms swinging between them, free hands touching the walls out of a need to reassure themselves of their own substance rather than a need to navigate.

It seemed like hours before Illya spoke again. "I'm hungry." His tone was so casual, he might have been walking down 47th Street, preparing to wheedle Napoleon into treating him to a hot dog from a street vendor. "I don't think I've ever been so hungry in my life."

Napoleon gritted his teeth. "I'm sorry," he said, "I can't exactly provide. Not unless we happen upon another convenient underground picnic."

"I think that was the only one," Illya said. "I think I might have been meant to stay there." If Napoleon listened closely, he could hear the slight waver in Illya's voice. "I think I might have to go back."

Napoleon gripped his hand. It had gone from clammy to slimy, from cool to worryingly frigid. He gave it a quick squeeze, and felt Illya's skin slip over jutting bone. "We're not going to go back," he said, trying to keep his own voice steady. "There's got to be another way out of here. THRUSH wouldn't--"

"This isn't THRUSH's territory anymore! Sosostris's goons are never going to find us, we're never going to stop that idiotic séance of his, and we're never going to get out of this cave." Illya's hand curled around Napoleon's, tugging backwards. "We can't do anything anymore."

Napoleon inhaled slowly, tasting the moldering air of the cave. If he breathed it deep enough, let it sit in his lungs until it became a part of him, would his skin become as cold and pale as Illya's? Would he be able to see the same spectres that Illya saw? Would he be able to see Illya, to hear his voice and feel his touch?

"We're going to try," he said at last.

Illya said nothing, but Napoleon thought he could hear the soft shuffling of his steps as they walked. The sound cheered him, and when he saw a glimmer of light out of the corner of his eye, he nudged Illya. "Do you see that?"

"No." Illya's voice was faint. "What?"

Napoleon felt Illya's grip on his hand begin to slacken, and pulled him closer. "I think it's a door."

"I don't see it." The light grew stronger, and Illya's hand grew soft, slippery, almost insubstantial.

"Illya! Hold on to me." Napoleon grasped his wrist, searching for a solid spot. The light was unbearably bright, green-white and creeping under his eyelids, obliterating the shade of Illya's form in his sight.

He heard a brief whisper that might have only been an echo, and then Illya's hand slipped out of his. He tried to grab it, throwing out his hand into the fluorescent void, but his arms were tied down and it was too bright to see.


End file.
